


Inverse Ninja Law

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No-one knows the militia better than Miles Matheson - he made it. So if they are going to kill him, they need to try something...unorthodox. And that means Jeremy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inverse Ninja Law

According to the shop Jeremy had looted it from – 'a palace warming present' for when they'd first moved to Philadelphia – the crystal decanter was about $900. He could probably have gotten it for 10 bucks on Amazon, of course, and dollars were just pretty paper these days. He still winced as it smashed against the fireplace, the flames turning colours as the whiskey flared and sparked.

'He's one man!' Monroe snapped, stalking towards Tom. 'How the hell does he keep killing all my men!' 

'Because he's Miles,' Tom said.

Jeremy didn't snort. Thought about it – he wasn't entirely sure when Tom had managed to end up first name terms with Miles - but didn't. Tom was on the fast path to the top (with Julia's neatly manicured hand planted firmly under his ass) and Jeremy was enjoying a slow slog to the middle. No sense borrowing the inevitable cull of senior officers that would follow Neville's next promotion (Jeremy was hoping to go out like John Dillinger – with a fake hard-on that would confuse the world. He was considering putting in a request). 

Monroe absorbed Tom's comment. 'So what's your advice, Tom. That my men should give up and run away every time they see a man with two swords.'

'No, they should wait until they can see the bloodshot pinks of his eyes,' Jeremy contributed.

Oh, rookie mistake. He knew better. Sure enough Monroe turned on his heel and glared at Jeremy, all cold eyes and surface smiles. 'I don't remember asking your opinion, Captain Baker. Since you feel the need to share it with us though – what do you suggest we do to mitigate the Miles related attrition of my troops.

Jeremy bit the inside of his cheek and didn't suggest – 'mitigate Miles murdering the men of the Monroe Militia – but it wasn't easy. 'Of course he can beat us,' Jeremy said. 'He knows our tactics. He taught us our tactics. Every thing we do, he's ready for. It's like fighting RDJ Sherlock Holmes.'

He waited. Nothing. Oh, they were fooling no-one – they were both old enough to get that reference.

'Miles hasn't trained the younger troops,' Monroe pointed out.

'Yeah,' Jeremy agreed. 'He just trained the people who trained them. You need someone new, someone who's never had Miles Matheson explain where the carrot's going to go if you don't run when he hits you with the stick.'

Monroe narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. That was never good. Jeremy shuffled himself upright, giving his rumpled jacket a good faith tug. 'What?'

'You've been promoted, Captain,' he said.

That was never good either.

'To?'

'You're going to train me a platoon of Miles killers.'

'Hmm,' Jeremy said, rubbing his nose. 'While that seems a great opportunity and not _at all_ a thankless and shame-filled task, I was trained by Miles. In fact, he actually found a carrot and threw it at me.'

Monroe snorted. 'I've read – or tried to read – your field reports, Jeremy. Pretty sure you forgot anything Miles ever told you, the minute he walked out of sight. Train me a militia who doesn't do what Miles' expects – it's always what you did best. Dismissed. Go to work.'

After a gape mouthed, spluttering second of 'surely there's a way out of this', Jeremy reluctantly left the office.

 

* * *

 

50 men stood at ease in the one-time ball-room, polished black boots squared shoulder-width apart and hands loosely clasped behind their back. They looked like a gang of goth nazis.

'OK,' Jeremy said. 'First thing to remember when facing Miles is that you aren't ninjas.'

A few lips twitched. Most of them stared at him blankly. Gormless goth nazis. Jeremy pinched his nose between his fingers and tried to think how to encapsulate generations of popular culture into one training session.

'Ok, again,' he said. 'Who here has seen _Kill Bill?_ '

Five hands went up. He scratched his head. Maybe he could recap.

They got confused pretty quickly. Jeremy told them to practice at the firing range and went looking for the creepy guy with all the shiny toys. Sorta. Actually, he went looking for the creepy guy's cowering minion that made all the shiny toys.

'Sanborn, right?' he said, dragging a chair up and sprawling out next to the twitchy guy.

'John,' he said, blinking nervously. 'O..or Sanborn. I don't mind.'

Jeremy grinned at him. 'Whatcha doing?'

Bony fingers shuffled the components around on the bench. 'I d...don't think you'd understand. It's very complicated.'

'That's ok,' Jeremy said. 'I'm pretty big. I can just hit you till you dumb it down enough.'

Sanborn twitched and then laughed jerkily. 'Very upfront. I'm just fixing my s...sonic disrupter. That's a gun that uses...'

'Dude, I'm not _that_ stupid,' Jeremy protested. 'I can follow sonic death ray.'

'Oh. Well, most people won't die,' Sanborn said. 'They might suffer brain damage if you left them exposed for long periods of time.'

'Stick with sonic death ray,' Jeremy said, picking up a trigger and squinting at it. 'It's not like we have a trading standards anymore and sonic brain pudding gun doesn't have the same impact. So why are you fixing it? Are you one of those evil scientists whose stuff always blows up in their hands?'

'N...no. Miles Matheson smashed it after I used it on him.'

'Why would he do that?' Jeremy asked indignantly. He waved the trigger. 'It's a _sonic death-ish ray_ , it's awesome. My god, he's not the man I remember.'

Sanborn chuckled. 'What was it you wanted...ah...' He stopped, squinting at Jeremy's collar.

'Captain Baker,' Jeremy provided. 'Jeremy'll do. Well, for Christmas I want a bowel disruptor gun like Spider Jerusalem.

Sanborn actually managed a grin that didn't look one sad thought away from ugly cries. 'Brown noise generators. There was research.'

'Right now, I wanna borrow your pendant.' And...there was the terror again. Jeremy clapped his shoulder reassuringly. 'Don't worry, it's not for sex toys or my laundry or anything.'

'I...I was thinking more d...deserting and driving to...to California.'

It was a better plan. Possibly also a suggestion from Sanborn's hungry, hopeful look. Either that or he fancied Jeremy. Both were understandable, and barking up the wrong tree unfortunately.

'I'm Monroe's dog,' Jeremy said, shrugging into what the rebels had meant as an insult. 'Kinda slobbery, not too obedient and kinda stuck with being loyal until he gets around to abandoning me on the side of the road.'

'Oh. Sorry.' 

'Naw, don't worry. I've thought about it, just can't quite do it,' Jeremy said. 'I need the pendant to screen some, ah, training videos. You can come with if you want?'

Sanborn looked dubious about whether or not he'd enjoy that, but nodded anyhow.

 

* * *

 

Five hours later – rewinding had been a revelation – Jeremy hustled the TV-dazed men back into a rough circle in the middle of the hall. They actually looked more gormless that before, but it had been the first time they'd seen Uma Thurman in that yellow jumpsuit so he had to make allowances...and maybe sent a complimentary box of tissues and lotion to their barracks tonight.

'Now, I let you watch the whole thing because I think a little culture can only improve you,' he said. 'What we're interested in is the scene in Volume 1 where the Bride slaughters the Crazy 88s.'

Someone put up their hand.

'We're not watching it again,' Jeremy said. 'You should have paid attention.'

Another hand went up. Jeremy let this one speak. 'The Bride could take General Matheson,' he said. Everyone nodded in agreement. Well, at least he'd planted the idea that someone could.

'The problem they had was the Inverse Ninja Law,' he said. 'Miles is a ninja – not culturally. On his own, he's hard to beat. The more people around him the easiest he gets: hostages, he's watching their back, if you chopped off their arm he'd probably stop to bandage them up.'

Everyone was nodding, except for Sanborn who was chewing on his knuckles and looking horrified and fascinated.

'You're not ninjas, you're mooks,' Jeremy said. Hopefully none of them would know what the word meant. 'Your strength lies in numbers. So, the minute Miles steps out of the shadows, shoot him. Don't even bother aiming – from what I've seen that'll actually increase your chances of hitting him – and don't wait for some smart-ass to say something smart. That was my mistake and Miles went out the window like a rat up a drainpipe. For someone who has spent a good portion of his adult life self-destructing through booze and acting out, he has a very sharp survival instinct.'

'What if we don't hit him?' a kid in the front row asked.

'Mob him, Jeremy said. 'All of you, all at once, just jump him and stab whatever bit you can reach. Hell, bite him in the ankle if you get the chance. The human mouth is filthy and fingers crossed he'll get tetanus.'

Sanborn had put his head in his hands and was either laughing or crying or both, shoulders heaving. After the session was over – 'If he kills more than half of the platoon run away, unless he is lying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood or offers to let you live if you run – that means his spleen is hanging out his ass and he hopes you won't notice' – Jeremy handed the pendant and DVD back to him.

'Is that standard training?' Sanborn asked. 'Because someday Randall is going to ask me if we can depend on the militia and I am a terrible liar.'

Jeremy leant against the wall and slid down into a crouch, rubbing at a stain on the knee of his trousers. 'Miles depends a lot on the fact everything knows how good he is,' he said. The urge to be flippant was nearly throttling him, but if something he said made Randall take up his pendants and go home, Monroe would spool out his intestines for Christmas garlands. 'Even if those idiots all get themselves killed over the next couple of months if they hurt Miles, if they make him look stupid or human or even just a bit of an ass? It'll be worth it. Plus, I am keeping my fingers crossed for tetanus...I was going to try and weaponise chilly blondes, but the logistics of that was boggling.'

OK, maybe a little bit of flippancy got away from him.

 

* * *

 

'Shit,' Miles wiped the blood off his sword and staggered over to sit down on a handy tree stump. His ears were ringing and a stray elbow had split his eyebrow open.

'That last one dropped out of a _tree_ ,' Jason said, sounding impressed.

Miles growled at him out of principle – if it had been anyone else, he'd have admitted it had been pretty weird – and rolled his jeans up. One of them had bitten him. While Charlie fussed over him – up yours, Jason – Jim poked around in the pockets of the dead militia.

He laughed suddenly and straightened up, holding a frayed patch in one hand. Miles squinted. It looked like a -

'Teddy bear?' Charlie blurted, saving him having to say it.

'No,' Hudson said. 'Koala.'

Miles groaned and leaned over, propping his head in his hands. 'Drop bears. He's told them about the deadly, Australian drop-bear martial arts hasn't he?'

'Yeah,' Hudson said. 'Sad thing is, damn near worked.'

'That's was why we kept him around,' Miles pointed out. '98% of his ideas are misfired neurons, 2% are some sort of idiot-savant brilliance. Why'd he tell them to bite me though? That's just being an ass.'


End file.
